


Rock Solid

by Liondragon (Sameshima_Shuzumi)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Clint Barton's Farm, Domestic, F/M, Gen, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3869743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Liondragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His team is more familiar to her than she is to them. The pads of her fingers move over his skin, a landscape she'd recognize anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock Solid

**Author's Note:**

> MASSIVE RUINOUS SPOILERS for MCU up to _Avengers 2: Age of Ultron_ , which I do not own. Canon will not be altered, just supplemented. Comments may contain spoilers! Content warnings same as canon. My recall of dialogue is awful, so I'm going on memory. Yes, sprogs, I am weak against sprogs, so this is just to get them off my back.   
> Revisions: Added epigraph at the end. Added phrase to last paragraph. 24th May 2015 final draft; my notebook says one quote and IMDB says another, so extra help would be appreciated. Also deviated from canon with Thor because he barely said hello: rude. **12th June 2015** : my inner editor demanded another polish. Style changes only. Unauthorized duplication and distribution is prohibited. 

The chirp echoed through the house around naptime. Laura looked up from balancing the books — running a farm was no financial picnic — and pushed her chair back. On cue, the lights blinked like the generator had stuttered. Just once, and several seconds after, so she didn't have to hurry. She swept the braided rag rug away and yanked at the hatch to the storm cellar, its custom hinges taking most of the weight. Underneath the hatch, lodged against the floorboards she'd long-ago fretted over when Clint had gone at them with the backsaw, was a thin plastic mat. Laura waved her hand at it. 

The mat lit up with a map of the farm in pale orange light. She waved at it again to brighten the image. Three years ago they'd duct-taped a tablet computer to the same spot, courtesy of Nick Fury. This newer mat was Stark tech, pilfered-with-permission from the man's own lab, or so Clint said.

Laura squinted at the energy signature. A quinjet. She could identify every blot and shadow on this screen, easy as reading clouds in the sky, and if any of those shapes were classified, Laura didn't have names for them besides _friendly_ or _not friendly_. She hummed, quietly lowering the hatch to blend with the centuries-old floorboards. Clint always said she added a "so far" to the latter category. Laura always said it was his fault for bringing home so many strays. 

Unconsciously patting her growing belly, Laura padded to Cooper's room. He was awake, of course, the little insubordinate scamp. Not that this reminded her of anyone, oh no. "Coop," she said. "Could you do me a big boy favor? Go downstairs and unlock the freezers."

Cooper looked up sharply. A lot like his dad. "Company, Mom?"

"Yep. Haul out some of the venison, the ones we cubed?" She grinned at his super-serious big boy face. "You can take the lantern if you're afraid of the dark."

"Moooom." He bumped at her leg on the way out. "Anything else I can get? I can use the footstool to reach in—"

"Use the purple stepladder instead, it's sturdier." _Don't fall in_ she didn't say, because the last time they'd gone off on a morbid tangent about bodies in the freezer, and while it was hilarious to them, the in-joke might not fly with guests.

"I could get more stuff." He waved a hand. Ever since Clint had told the kids to take care of their baby brother, they'd been quicker to do more of the hauling and fetching. Unless it was picking up after themselves, of course.

"Tell you what, fill up the kitchen fridge with whatever you like. You pick the menu. We'll throw it all in."

Cooper got that squinty focused look again. "Lots of company?"

A few hundred miles away and years ago, she'd sat on a river bluff with Clint and asked him which hawk was his favorite. Clint had picked up on it. _We can't name him 'Chicken,'_ he'd said, and she'd punched his rock-solid arms and said, _Fine, how about 'Cooper'?_

"I think so," said Laura. Quinjets could only mean so many things after what happened in DC. "Haul as much as you can, or until there's no room in the fridge. Not the hams, they're bigger than you." Now, that put some extra speed in Cooper's step. He knew all about the appetites of supersoldiers and alien princes.

In a way, it was nice that he took it for granted that his father was coming home.

While he was in the storage cellar, she could get the first aid supplies ready. And then maybe wake Lila to turn down the beds.

The floor creaked.

*

Laura could see them emerging from the copse of trees next to the pasture. It was what she'd guessed: the entire team. All the Avengers. She pushed away the nervous flutter. Her wedding ring ticked against the stock, a new familiarity. The last time there was something like this, they'd finally made the marriage official. No more SHIELD to breathe down their necks. Enough loyal ex-SHIELD agents had been scooped up by the other agencies to call in markers and keep them from getting flagged. For the rest, there were Coulson, Natasha, and Maria, who had made for great witnesses at the courthouse, too.

Less than a week ago she'd gotten word that Clint had been hurt. This felt like a brand new concern. If the whole team was here, that meant all their safehouses were burned, including Stark's perch in New York.

She put away the sniper rifle, shook the kerchief from her face, carefully wiped her hands of any residue, and shuffled to the kitchen to see how the kids were doing. 

They'd just have to make this one extra safe.

*

Clint was saying something about not calling ahead, but Laura heard the all-clear signal in his voice, switched out the remote trigger for the kids' morning project, and rounded the corner. She did spare a glance for Natasha (not dying this instant), then threw herself at Clint. Rock-solid. 

Never mind their super-powered company. Every time Clint walked through the door, Laura felt like she was the one coming home. 

Laura eventually took in their stunned expressions. Somewhere in there, Tony Stark was babbling, and Natasha was vacillating between skittish and relieved, and Clint was introducing her. 

"I already know who all of you are," she said. Clint squeezed her shoulder, knowing she was savoring the moment. It wasn't often she knew more than his eyes-only classified crowd. The kids, too. Laura knew all about her husband's unconventional co-workers, from the basics of their backgrounds to many a funny story at the dining room table and in the bedroom: from the infamous chicken dance episode to what really happened at last New Year's karaoke party. Told with Clint's dramatic re-enactments, with facial expressions, sometimes with musical accompaniment, so that Laura and the kids could readily spot an impostor wearing their faces.

She smiled wider when the kids themselves followed suit, launching themselves at their dad; they knew their cues too, and Laura was proud. Even more when they drew Nat in, automatic, melting some of that jittery caution. Laura was quick to back them up. She was aware of how their every grin and embrace spooked the other guys — oh wow, was that Lila freaking out Thor, where was her camera? — but Laura had the high ground. Clint was home, their Aunt Nat was home, they were here to say _I missed you, how are you, let me show you_ , like pebbles holding down a river. 

Laura didn't press the advantage for long. "Come in, everyone. Make yourselves at home."

*

Fairly innocuously, Lila got on Thor's case for stepping on her sentry cottage. Thor offered her a poetic declaration of apology, followed by a more formal poetic declaration of gratitude for opening their home to them. Laura just side-eyed Clint with a 'these weirdos, really?' He'd shrugged, glancing at the antique coat rack where Thor had hung his cape and mystical hammer, like it was a carnie trick he couldn't quite figure out.

While Clint herded everyone through post-mission (and post-naptime) snacks, Thor listened intently to Lila's pointed explanation of her siege on the doll fortress to retrieve the magic jewel. There was a low cloudbank outside, and Laura wondered if it was mirroring Thor's face. Either Lila was really getting under his skin, or this waking-dream attack was, because four cream-cheese-on-toasts later, Thor was taking off. Literally. Cooper was impressed.

Laura and Clint exchanged glances as Rogers lingered out on the porch. His shoulders were hunched behind the shield and he gazed out like he could see the hole in the clouds where Thor had flown through. Maybe he could. 

*

"If you don't mind, Captain, there's a tap outside where you can wash off the shield," Laura said. She raised the spoon to Lila, who blew on it. They tasted the stew together, both eying Steve Rogers as he lingered at the threshold. The stunned look hadn't faded yet. He was a broad-shouldered presence, yet Laura caught the wistfulness in his stare, the way he seemed to shrink back from some invisible boundary. She thought about what they looked like: her in an apron covered in paint hand-prints, Lila on the hand-carved footstool, curtains on the windows, turnips on the butcher block.

He seemed to remember what he looked like to them. 

Laura added quickly, "Coop's going to try to touch the shield. He's not supposed to mess with anything after—"

"Oh, of course, ma'am," he said, then blanched at the use of polite address. Laura smirked. "We're grateful for your hospitality. We'll get out of your hair as soon as we can."

"Nah, it's fine, Cooper and Lila know the rules on equipment right out of the field." Years back (had it been years?) Natasha had freaked out about poison traces on her uniform. Clint had stuffed her in the shower stall behind the barn and emptied the rain barrel on her. "He's just likely to forget it applies to yours, too."

"More parsley," said Lila. She was staring at Rogers openly.

"I agree," said Laura. She reached across the window sill and twisted a bunch of leaves.

"Your eyes are blue," said Lila.

"They are," Captain America said gravely. This time he made himself smaller on purpose. "And yours?"

"They're Dad-colored," replied her little obfuscator. It worked, too, because they all laughed. Once more Laura wished she were as quick to grab a camera as Clint was, he'd get a kick out of that one. Coulson would, too. Of course, now that Clint's former handler knew that they knew that he knew, no amount of emotional bribery seemed to work on him. Though it was probably riskiest to contact him, Laura still resolved to work on it, another day. He'd kept Clint alive the longest.

Rogers retreated to the screen door. "Thanks, Mrs. Barton."

"Laura, please."

He smiled, boyish and brittle. Laura remembered how young he was, how he held himself like the old men marching through her third-grade hometown every Veteran's Day. "Then Steve's fine. I'll get cleaned up and set the table."

"Your outfits go in the delicates basket, if you're doing laundry," Laura called. She poked at the lemonade to see if it was defrosted. 

Maybe before dinner she'd remember to check the delicates basket to see if she'd tossed any lingerie in there.

*

Laura watched them all swirl around each other, eating, sitting, staring at hands and faces like they were last vestiges of sanity. Dr. Banner had dutifully accepted several offers of food, and Laura guessed it was some perfunctory standard procedure. The quilt on his lap was probably non-standard. 

Natasha at least was having her fill of the kids, the house, catching up. She was waving the ultrasound picture, arguing over nicknames with Clint and Cooper, because there was only one Aunt Nat, and it was easy to mix it up with 'Nate' on the comms. Laura snickered, secretly relieved. Natasha had looked so hollow-eyed back when she'd turned up after the fall of SHIELD. It had taken weeks before she'd looked ... more human, Laura thought for lack of a better word. Sometimes Laura unlocked the safe under the bed and looked through their thin wedding album, and recalled how Natasha had seemed to relish the ceremony even more than they had.

Natasha broke off from the kids. Somewhere, Stark fiddled with a handful of plastic blocks, plugging and unplugging them into intricate shapes as he blatantly snooped around. Clint was wriggling out of his honey-do list by passing it off to Steve. Laura watched them all swirl around the wide space and low ceilings. She noted where Natasha drifted.

Interesting.

*

The first thing Clint did once they were alone was try to put out her worries. _Don't even think about it,_ like sand on a brush fire. Laura was more perturbed by the narrow miss of another mental attack, close enough that he couldn't mention it aloud. Still, she took it for what it was. 

They cycled through the logistics of having company over. Clint was way too amused by the idea of his teammates bunking up. Laura nearly brought up the thin walls, and whether they needed to put someone up in the barn. Instead, she prodded him about Natasha.

The surprise on his face was entirely unfeigned. Laura had to laugh. Something Hawkeye had overlooked! Granted, before having a kid, Clint hadn't stuck around any person long enough to see them make a change that drastic. No wonder he was thrown. Still, it was funny. 

As she teased (so cute, her boy), she caught a whiff of his misgivings. Unsteadying doubts. Probably one dig too many, or too close, in the course of kidding around. Maybe something she wasn't privy to, though either way it amounted to that familiar wobbly feeling between cut-and-run and dig-in-and-stay. 

He was zeroing in at close range, and that wasn't his style. Even lightning strikes needed streamers from the ground. She drifted to him, her husband, smelled and touched the reality of him back in their bedroom. Where he belonged. Clint Barton belonged in plenty of places, and he belonged here. Laura tried not to think of it as hoarding her moments. She and Clint were alike in placing all their chips on present circumstances, she reminded him.

Speaking of thin walls. The original window-glass had thinned over a hundred summers, too, what with their bedroom always last to be renovated. 

"Cap!" came Stark's voice from outside. Clint huffed like he didn't think it was a hot idea for Tony Stark to approach Steve while he was holding an axe, and that he did think Tony would do it anyway. Laura thought it was about time Stark emerged from his sulk. Sure enough: "Settling in to the simple life, huh? This place may actually be older than you are."

Laura didn't hear Steve's answer, though she knew Clint was reading his lips. He was starting to frown. From his vantage, and hers, they were _his_ messed up team. His strays, maybe more than he was theirs. They were all wobbling, and everybody knew it. Even Natasha. 

Laura liked Natasha, who kept her husband alive, the dark angel on his shoulder. In this very house, in a different cobwebbed corner, Clint had stumbled through one of his more awkward talks. _"Not that our bosses sanction it, but we may have to... I mean in the course of the mission, we, she and me might have to—"_

And Laura had said: _The end of that sentence is 'to survive.'_

Survive.

Everything else was easy.

One evening under the covers Clint had whispered that Natasha couldn't have children. He hadn't elaborated. That was the first and last time Laura cried over Natasha Romanov. They had tried, both Clint and herself, to give Natasha choices again, and ways to choose. Laura had always recognized that shifting restlessness of hers, except written on Natasha's face and not on a stack of change-of-address forms and used cars. Natasha didn't want anyone to cry over her. She could be protective, though. That, Laura also understood.

After Coulson, and then him and Natasha, now it was this team's turn to bring Clint home— 

His reassurances passed over her like lukewarm water. The pads of her fingers across his skin. A landscape she'd recognize anywhere. 

And in the middle of the map, a patch of new skin that wasn't Clint at all.

She murmured as much, taking in this new anti-scar, steadying her voice with the assurance that this was just another mark to add to her catalog. _I will know you better,_ she'd vowed, a flower behind her ear. She hadn't said: _I will know you better than anyone else._

She studied the set of Clint's shoulders as his grimace deepened at whatever Steve and Stark were discussing. She thought about Clint going where he belonged. She thought about surviving. 

"Just be sure," she said now. And that was that. 

*

They made their way to the porch, Clint enlisting the kids to attack the latest in-progress project. Far enough away to watch, close enough to break up whatever trouble Iron Man and Captain America could get themselves into while splitting logs. Laura stayed in to do a linens check and thought about the bedroom situation again. 

Clint twitched away from their handiwork, then caught Laura's eye through the window. She followed his line-of-sight outside to the back of the barn.

'He wants Stark,' Clint mouthed. He shot a glance at the two men by the woodpile. 

"I'll herd him," Laura said, wiping her hands. Feeling a bit like she was twelve again and writing out Aunt Myrtle's thank-you notes so she and her misanthropic tongue didn't get run out of town, Laura went to see Tony Stark about a tractor.

*

Oh, she hoped the porch cameras had caught Steve ripping that log in two, bare-handed. That footage just might smoke Coulson out. 

*

Laura knocked on Dr. Banner's door. He looked a bit less peaky, though he still wore a haunted look. Even if she hadn't heard the news, Laura could guess.

"Hello, Mrs. B— Laura."

She leaned on the jamb. Natasha was still in the shower. "This room sits over the porch," she said softly. "Over there are the pastures and hay fields, if you need somewhere to go. Keep going thataway and there's a river, then more fields."

"Oh," he said.

Laura smiled. "The kids know who you are, Bruce. Their bedrooms are on the other end of the house."

"I..." Bruce looked at his hands, plucking at the cuffs of his oversized sweater. "Thank you," he said, just as softly.

She wouldn't add that Steve was across the hall, and that he was going to rough it on the floor with a sleeping bag. Even without his enhanced hearing, he'd be among the first to wake at any sign of trouble. She'd promised Steve she wouldn't tell Clint, either.

"If you're looking for a favor to do us," said Laura lightly, "Try sleeping through the night."

*

As she supervised the mandatory timed toothbrushing, Laura caught Natasha in the corridor. 

She clamped her tongue over _Are you all right_.

"Want to talk?" she asked instead. 

Natasha stopped. In front of her was a framed construction paper painting of a flying arrow-shooting fish. Laura wasn't sure she saw it. 

"No," Natasha said at last. Then she turned around in the hallway as though she were taking in a 360° view. Her gaze crossed Laura's. "Thanks," she said. She'd sleep where she'd sleep.

"Aunt Nat, I'm done!" cried Lila.

Natasha smiled. "Are you? The timer hasn't gone off. You can still do a little more." 

*

Following a protracted Bedtime round-up, the others plotted how to save the world. Laura did laundry. She'd made Nick haul everything down there. "I'm pregnant, what's your excuse?" she said, charitably not adding the 'old man'. Clint might not have been so considerate. 

After a quick check with Tony that everyone's washing instructions were identical to Clint's gear, she did a spot-check for blood, then started the first load. On second thought, she dialed down the water temperature. Tony had run his undersuit through filtered (don't ask) tap water, then wrung it out. She wouldn't put it past him to try to shrink everyone else's uniforms from skin-tight to obscene. She'd even managed to divest Nick of a few of his homeless-guy accessories. All their soap was unscented, anyway. It was easy to dismiss the sense of smell until you were out there in the real world, working from moment to moment.

Their relationship with Nick Fury was complicated to say the least. He'd saved Clint more than once, and also fucked with him in ways massive and subtle. Together they had the relaxed familiarity of people who had shot at each other. And it was Fury who'd dragged Clint home after the Battle of Manhattan, when he'd been too scared of the inside of his head to risk his family's safety. Laura felt for Clint like bedrock, and she still wasn't sure to be relieved or irritated that it had been Nick Fury telling Clint _"Your girl knows you"_ that had gotten him to believe.

They'd gone over their options with Natasha and by themselves for months after their wedding before Clint had decided on this particular arrangement. Laura supposed he'd re-evaluate again after this round. She'd been keeping an eye on everyone in case she picked up on something significant.

She wouldn't bother speculating on the alternative.

No raised voices as yet. Laura figured she might as well do inventory. Well, there went all the microbrews, including the home-brews from their neighbors the next county over. Except for a few bags of basmati, all their carb stores were gone, but those would be easy to replace. Much of the frozen and canned fruit had gone into the electrolyte-replacing drinks they'd served all day. 

Laura opened a freezer and promptly slammed it back down. "Holy shit," she muttered. 

There was enough room in there to hide a body, now. Maybe a couple of bodies.

Yeah, they were going to eat oatmeal and cornbread tomorrow, and like it.

*

She woke again when Clint tried to slip into the bedroom. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Goof," she said. "Don't break my heat bubble."

"You'll just kick them off anyway." He flopped beside her on top of the covers. She heard his boots thump on the floor.

They lay there in the darkness.

God, just to hear the sound of his breathing in the dark was so _good_.

She reached down to ruffle his crazy hair, then gently scritched that spot on the back of his neck. She was the only one in the world allowed to do that. He snuffled happily. She giggled.

Clint dragged himself up and gave her a kiss. 

"Sorry," he said again, abrupt. "We can't." 

Of course they couldn't. Before Clint came home from a mission, he'd have a full panel of medical tests to make sure he wasn't carrying anything weird. Moreso since she was pregnant. That was standard procedure with SHIELD, and with the Avengers. This time they'd flown straight back from Wakanda.

"Dork," she said. "What makes you think I wanna?"

Clint laughed. He fit himself to her shoulder, nosing her neck, and jammed his ridiculous bicep under her breast. It was like sleeping with a log on her ribs, but Laura didn't mind, it took pressure off other places. Geez, this guy.

"Stark's going to make my flannel shirt smell like skeevy rich guy cologne," he whined.

"If I ask Mrs. Newcombe how to get that out, she'll think I'm having a torrid affair," she said.

"Can't you get another laundry guru?"

"She spent two weeks testing four kinds of performance fabric on ten kinds of stains. Including blood. I told her it was for hunting," she added. "I don't have time for that shit."

"Naw, you really don't." He poked the top of Nat Junior's bump. And winced.

"Hey, rubdown." Laura knew better than to get up while the amazing bicep was pinning her.

"I wanted to do Bedtime with My Wife, not fuckin' PT."

"Neither of us is going to be able to sleep and I can do this sitting up." Laura smirked, turning her lips to his ear. "Shirt off, Barton."

"Sonuva." Clint let her up. She rolled gently to the nightstand and picked up the bottle of oil. With her grandmother's remote assistance, she'd decocted it herself with fresh herbs, stuff that would either evaporate or prove unremarkable in the field.

Clint sprawled across the bed this time. Laura warmed the oil with her hands, enjoying the view. Once Clint was done fussing with the pillows, she slapped the oil down. First the back. One muscle group at a time, nice and easy. Finding all the secret places where he'd tightened up without noticing. The place where he'd been healed became less foreign under her hands. Then from shoulders to arms, all the way to the fingertips with their deep calluses. Moving up. Moving down. Rotation. Repeat. Rubbing the small muscles of the heel of his hand. When he squeezed her fingers, she kissed his knuckles.

Supine and trusting and loose. All the places he could never see, she memorized. She moved his arm along prescribed arcs, manipulating the instrument he used to kill, placing it on her lap and tracing the sinews.

Tomorrow he'd be that much more ready. 

Laura was going to send him out the front door. She was also going to do whatever she could to keep him alive.

*

Unfortunately Nat the Traitor was great at sitting on her bladder. At oh-dark-hell _no_ Laura tiptoed to the ground floor powder room with the newer plumbing, so as not to wake any sleeping superheroes. And to do a surreptitious patrol. No weird or scandalous noises that she could hear. Darn.

She was a little restless after the restroom. The kitchen was occupied. As per the jumbo post-it note on the wall, the LED candles were lit around the counters.

"What's with the candles? Barton's taking this medieval schtick too far," said Tony into the kitchen table.

"Just in case someone checks our generator usage, we try not to spike it when company comes over." Laura found the half-full container of cottage cheese and dumped some fruit cocktail into it. 

"You're completely off-grid, right?" He had what Clint had described as the Must-Invent-Now edge in his voice. A fixer. Laura had known some of those in her time.

She said blandly, "Need-to-know. Talk to Clint. He's in charge of security clearances around here."

Tony's head jerked up. The candlelight threw his features in sharp relief. He watched her dig into the curds with an oversized spoon. "Smart guy. He'd agree. He gets it."

Laura had no idea what he was talking about, and thought she didn't want to know. After a few heavenly bites of craving-buster, she offered, "Stark stocks went up a little today."

Tony's gaze sharpened. Man, he was twitchy. Of course, Clint had described them as the walking PTSD brigade. This twitchiness seemed innate. Maybe Laura would have a different opinion of him if she'd met him earlier. 

"You don't have to, it doesn't exactly _matter_ one way or—" Then Tony sat up. They were supposed to be off the grid. No calls in or out. They hadn't even watched the news, at least not inside the house.

Laura explained. "There's an AM band station that recites the stocks by sector. It went down yesterday because of Wakanda, but corrected today. If something had happened at corporate headquarters, the price would've dipped." She paused. "So she's probably okay."

Tony seemed to deflate. He rubbed at his hair, which just made it look better. "Oh. Thanks for your. I mean, all this." He waved a hand around.

"I guess Clint would never mention this," Laura said carefully. "When that thing happened in Malibu, SI stock plunged. We knew something was wrong before anyone called it in. We were in another state for my uncle's funeral. Clint tried to call in, but SHIELD," she snorted, and Tony shared a grim look with her, "they told him to stay put. I never asked Natasha, but I guess it was the same with her. And wherever she was, Steve was probably there too."

"At this rate, it'll all be bygones," Tony muttered at last.

Laura sighed. "Coffee?" 

"Uh yeah. Four hours till take-off, yeah, that should work."

"Does it matter?" Laura asked curiously as she got up.

"Fine motor controls rely on eye-tracking and rapid blinks. Can't afford a tic. Usually filter out the noise, but my co-pilot's new, gotta break her in gently." They sat in silence and waited for the coffee to brew. Laura dug through the cottage cheese. It didn't feel like the last night of the world to her, but she suspected Tony felt differently. She carried the steaming mug to him before she remembered one of Natasha's stories, and set it down on the table. Tony picked it up less than a second later. There was a slurp. "This isn't the usual slop."

She opened a cupboard and shook a bag of coffee beans at him. They hadn't bothered to remove the Stark Industries holo-sticker.

He scowled like a drenched cat. "Employee theft costs companies millions."

"Keeps the guy who shoots seeker drones off your tail alert and awake," said Laura languidly.

"He never drinks coffee at the Tower," Tony muttered. "At least, I don't think so. I could ask J..." he trailed off. 

Clint didn't want his hands to shake, no matter what his tolerance. Tony could figure it out anyhow. "Actually this stash is just for home use. And for Clint." She placed a hand over her belly. Tony's gaze was directed there, then swerved away. In a fit of meanness, Laura added, "I'm off caffeine until the kid's off breast milk."

Tony wiped his face. "No formula?" he asked, almost despite himself.

"Supplementary. They can take mashed up food earlier than most people think. And everything's fresh. Oh," she gestured to the blender. "If you're making a breakfast shake, there's fresh kale in the crisper, and frozen berries and bananas."

Tony brightened. "Full service. I like it. Any coconut cream?"

"You see any coconut trees?" She ate another spoonful of cottage cheese. "How about fresh cream?"

"Unpasteurized?" Tony wrinkled his nose.

"Given that it ends up on our table, we don't cut corners. If you really want to steam away all the beneficial elements, you can figure that one out yourself. Just rinse the blender after you're done, you're not the only one who'd use it."

"Sure, if I can stay out of the way of Captain Elbows when he inevitably cooks a wholesome breakfast for the troops and quotes Napoleon. In French. Could probably whip up another serving for..." Tony stared into his coffee. Laura nearly thought he was addressing the mug when he said, "What am I supposed to say to Bruce?"

"Um," said Laura.

Tony set the mug down, hard. "Fuck, sorry. These things, I usually ask Pepper, and yeah." He looked down. "The hell of it is he'd probably thank me. We built the Hulkbuster together. Had fun with it, a little. That back there... wasn't fun."

Laura resisted the incredible urge to roll her eyes. Maybe come morning light she'd tell Clint that he really was the mature guy of the bunch, just to see him wrinkle his nose in that cute way of his. "Maybe just talk to him."

"Yeah." Tony gripped the mug handle, then let go. Grip. Release. "Yeah, probably."

"You have my permission to get one of the kids to run interference with Aunt Nat if you need him alone."

"Whoa, are they...?"

"Uh-uh, I have no idea," said Laura. "And stay out of it. I know you know Natasha." _And what she's capable of._

Tony grinned, then subsided. "The kids are nice, for rugrats. I mean, one kid's pretty much like... yeah, whatever, I don't know about kids, half the time they're the ones schooling me." There was a brief hunch of his shoulders, but it was gone the next second. "Anyway, sorry we're whisking Clint away to play. Can't be easy. You all right here? I mean if there's anything—"

"Ms Rushman has provided us with a superior employee benefits package," said Laura, her tongue thumping her cheek. 

"Hah," said Tony Stark. "Good," he added fervently. "That's good."

*

They woke up before the kids. Though not before the other Avengers, though Laura wasn't sure who. Seemed like Tony hadn't been kidding about Steve's breakfast of champions deal.

Beside her, Clint was clear-eyed and tight-lipped. Spoiling for a fight. He was shifting back into mission mode. 

Laura let her hand circle back to home. Then her other hand popped up and boom, she had her photo. Finally. Not many people had seen _that look_ this up close and lived. If their kids ever asked any in-depth questions, she had this proof, at least.

Clint waited a second before his eyes slid to her. He flashed a grin that made him look fifteen, except crinkly in ways Laura knew by heart. She snapped a picture of that too. Then he gave her a disgusting morning-breath kiss, and she shoved him away.

"Going to get the laundry, including your super-duds, and then I'm going into battle," Laura said.

"Huh?"

"Your damn friends ate us out of house and home. I think one whole freezer and a third of one."

"The sad part is that's not even all Rogers," said Clint. "So you're gonna spend a day on restock?" 

Laura nodded weakly. Kids and lists and budget and hours-long drive both ways. Yeah, that was her agenda for the end of the—

Suddenly Clint was right there, big hand cupping her jaw, cheek to cheek, his solid shoulder near her heart. She flung an arm around him. Ruffled his hair. God, it felt the same as when she'd run her fingers through it so long ago, her glitter stick-ons coming off.

She laughed. She wasn't sure if she sounded the same as back then. Clint probably knew.

"We got all our papers," she said softly. All their papers for everyone including the midwife, real and fake, all the bolt-holes she'd set up by herself, so not even Clint would know, not even Natasha would guess them. Easy as always, easier with practice. Deeds and wills and contracts: stuff they didn't need right this moment. Stuff Clint would not have to worry about, ever, because by the time they were needed, it'd be pointless to worry.

Of course she didn't have to explain that.

"I know right where you'll be," said Clint.  
  
  
  
  
  


  
_If you walk out that door, you're an Avenger._

**Author's Note:**

> For RL reasons I'm in a weird place right now with comments, but please feel free to chatter. Just keep in mind I am a consummate multi-shipper. "Yes, please" is my ship. This fic may contain a blank check for such, if you squint. (Legal marriage creates a paper trail. Two can play this game, Joss.)  
> A problematic line was omitted about the realities of life, death, and treatment of animals in modern farms; not fitting for the story, but y'all can look it up. Have a feeling most readers have not had the chance to butcher. P.S. No one's caught the Cooper's hawk bit yet.   
> Oh yeah, this one's open for remix. Thanks y'all, and a caw caw to Blackananas for the 100th kudos.  
> 


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